


Fascinating New Thing

by Hammocker



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham Asylum (Video Games)
Genre: Aging, Angst, Depression, Gen, Headcanon, Home Invasion, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Loneliness, M/M, Rating May Change, non-sexual nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hammocker/pseuds/Hammocker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reformation never was all it was supposed to be. Self-control even less so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crane Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a small piece of a huge idea that I've had gnawing at my mind. I was going to let it be until my current project, Grievances, is complete, but I realized that I did, in fact, have a first chapter essentially complete, so I fixed it up today so that I could post it now. The rest of the fic, however, is either in need of some major renovation to comply to my current outline or doesn't exist yet. I likely won't update this in a good long time, but I figured that since I have it now, why not?
> 
> Oh, the many odd, mostly inconsequential headcanons contained in this work in progress as well as my own over-thinking skull. I've gotten it into my head some very odd quirks and motives and reasoning for Zsasz, Jonathan, and Edward. I hope my interpretation for Jonathan and Scarecrow isn't too far off. It's mainly based off of the contrast between Crane's patient profile tapes and his actual appearances in Arkham Asylum. My thought is that either Crane is a really good actor or Scarecrow and Jonathan aren't the same person. And that's just the tip of the iceberg if this turns out well. Let's see if I'm not biting off more than I can chew with any of this.
> 
> Both Victor Zsasz/Jonathan Crane (one sided at the very least) and Edward Nigma/Jonathan Crane will be included eventually. I hate to tag prematurely, but these pairings and characters will be a significant part of the story when they come about. Rating is also subject to change.
> 
> Thank you to Semisonic for partially inspiring this work, and for giving me a good idea for a title that actually works pretty well.

There was no quiet that quite matched that of the tiny laboratory, tucked away from prying eyes within a larger, almost as dimly lit apartment. Though the majority of objects within the lab were a sterile white, under only minimal radiance the color appeared as a dark gray. The only natural luminescence that dared crawl within this lab were the empty reflections that slid across glassy instruments, skittered upon metallic surfaces, and slithered across fluids. However, these were not true lights. They served only as mere mimicries, taunting the shadow-covered objects around them with their presence alone, reminding each tool of what it might have felt under the sun. The false lighting was quick to scurry from view as a lamp of blinding white bulb was flipped on with the snap of a metal switch.

With the deathly darkness now chased away, Jonathan Crane was able to begin his work. Measuring, estimating, hypothesizing, testing, doing anything he felt necessary in his own practiced, methodical way. Numbers that formed structures began to appear on a nearby white board, and no sooner had they began to come than they had consumed every piece of blank space that the board had once had to offer. Glass that had been cleaned so that it had been as clear as the day it was manufactured was now stained blue, green, and red in succession.

In the middle of his work, as he was preparing to heat a mixture, Crane retracted his hand from the glass before he had even picked it up. He cast an impartial glance over what he had made that then slid over to what had been written upon the white board. Vacancy quickly turned to disappointment as Crane realized that he did not remember quite what he had been trying to create. Had he had a hypothesis moments ago? Had he started out with some grand purpose? He had often had grand purposes when Scarecrow had still lurked in his mind. Though he winced at the name that the cruel manifestation of instinct had taken on itself, Crane felt a distinct pang of loss every time he remembered what Scarecrow and himself had accomplished. There had been goals. Plans. Motivation. There had been direction before Scarecrow first distinguished itself from Crane, when he was young and ambitious. Now, though, there was only a void.

Just then, Crane caught the distorted form of his reflection in the glass of one of multiple nearby containers. This glass cylinder happened to be filled with a mixture of a blackish tint. Though the fluids he worked with were generally not so dark in color, the color was not what was in the forefront of Crane's mind. His thoughts instead turned to what he thought might have been an extra line on his face, or some sort of flaw printed upon his skin. With no delay, Crane stood up, and hurried towards his nearby bathroom. Halfway to his destination though, Jonathan slowed himself in an attempt to prove to himself that he was not bothered by the mark that might have found its way onto his face. He tried desperately not to worry that his age had further manifested itself on his features.

Surely enough, as Jonathan examined himself, the dubious accusation that the container had made was confirmed by his ever-reliable looking glass. He grabbed the sides of the mirror, ready to tear it from its hold, and smash it against the floor. As his hesitation persisted, however, his hands slipped away, dropping to rest upon the cool porcelain. There was no merit in shooting the messenger. Crane allowed his shoulders to slump as he gave a long sigh. The reality was clear: another crease had materialized on his face, emphasizing the movements of his brow, and filling Jonathan with an alien sense of dread. The feeling had often been maligned and mocked by his former self when it was present in others. Deep fears had been beneath Crane since his late adolescence. They had always been something to be scoffed at or studied as some kind of phenomena rather than something to be dealt with. Scarecrow had been the one to drive away his fears. The mask that Crane had worn once had always made him feel so safe when he allowed himself to be enthralled by the mesh of baser instincts and negative emotions that made up Scarecrow. He would have given anything to have been able to put that mask back on at this very moment. He would have allowed Scarecrow to wreak whatever havoc he might have liked simply for that feeling of complete security. With his mask now gone though, the mass of cruel thoughts and dark impulses that had made up Scarecrow's basic form within Crane's mind had dispersed after being refused manifestation for too long. The burdens that came with conflicting emotions had at last become Jonathan's to bear.

Not less than a year ago, Crane had decided that he had had enough of being a jailbird. Experimentation requiring human subjects be damned, Crane could no longer stand being forced to regularly live among people who should be his patients. Despite great reluctance, Jonathan had burned the burlap of the guise, and crushed the gas mask in a garbage compactor. As safe as Scarecrow's influence had made him feel, the sense of security was not worth the wasted time spent under lock and key. After ridding himself of his disguise, he had checked himself into to Arkham, desperate to be contained and looked after until he was able to manage his instincts and emotions appropriately without channeling them through Scarecrow. It had been a long process, of course. More than a few months were spent with little progress, and Crane had not enjoyed speaking with the less prestigious therapists working for the asylum. Still, even through his reluctance to vocalize his inner workings, Jonathan had wanted more than anything to gain back exclusive dominion over himself. Though he might have liked to rule over the hearts and minds of many, self-control was the sort of control that Crane valued most, and slowly, but surely, he had learned to manage his instincts without causing harm. The fact that he now rented out an apartment and worked at one of Gotham's several research laboratories was proof enough of that. He was finally putting his skills to good use while studying fear in non-human mammals on the side. His was a fine existence, and he was proud to have overcome his demons.

Yet through this sense of triumph, there came upon Crane a bitter, torturous twisting deep within his chest and abdomen. Almost always, he would experience a sensation as though his stomach was attempting to digest itself. There was a constant sense that he existed as an incomplete entity. He felt sick and weak so often, yet his body refused to acknowledge his mind's anguish. His temperature was painfully normal, his weight was no more minimal than usual, and his diet was the same simple palette that it had always been. He had even given himself a blood test out of desperation, and found everything to be perfectly regular. At least if he had found something wrong with himself then he would have been able to correct the indescribably distracting sensation constantly turning within his abdomen. Anything would have been better than enduring unpleasant sensations day in and day out. He almost wished that he could give himself some sort of placebo, but nonsense such as ginseng and homeopathy only worked well if the patient was not aware that they were not actually being given real treatment.

Such thoughts of emptiness and uncertainty were taxing ordeals though, and Jonathan soon tired of scrutinizing himself. Crane made his way out of his washroom and into the living area of his home. He sat on the familiar sofa that had been in the apartment when he had first rented out the place. Though it was not intended to be sunk into as many newer couches would have been, Crane found comfort in the musky scent of aged wood and cloth that emanated from it. Sometimes he would even forgo the effort that it took to walk to his bedroom, and simply sleep on the couch. More sunlight could flow in from the windows of his living room than the murky, translucent windows of his bedroom as well, a quality that Crane appreciated. He had spent enough time skulking around in shadow for a lifetime already, making the light of day a welcome sight.

Sooner or later, Crane found his eyelids drooping as his thoughts drifted. There was no good reason for him to remain conscious, after all. He had no drive to exist at that moment, making unconsciousness preferable. Perhaps when he woke up his passion would return, but Crane somehow doubted that it would. He had not had the same desire to continue working that he once had since he had removed Scarecrow from himself. Unless his alter-ego were to split his personhood once more as he slept, there was no doubt in Crane's mind that he would wake up feeling exactly the same as he was just then.


	2. Night Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crane is paid a visit by an old friend.

Crane woke to a nearby thump. Though the noise was muted, in Jonathan's drowsy, desensitized psyche, it was as though the sound was pressed against his tympanic membrane by an ear bud. He shifted about, moving one ankle over the other, and using his shoulder as a headrest while he tried to make himself comfortable once more. At that moment, there was nothing Crane wanted more than to sink back into the sofa, still comfortably warm with his own body heat, and fall into unconsciousness once more. Unfortunately, ever since he had turned thirty, Crane had found that returning to sleep after being disturbed was increasingly difficult. Despite his objective findings, however, he continued his old habit of trying to fall back asleep. After allowing himself to yawn in a deep breath, Crane finally decided that it would be best to get up sooner rather than later. Maybe he would find the source of the noise that had woken him up after making himself some tea. He might even be able to get back to sleep afterwards. The time could not be any earlier than two in the morning after all, if the dense darkness was any indication.

Sitting up on the sofa, Crane stretched his arms and legs out as best he could. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness, forcing him to stall so that he would not trip over anything on his commute to his compact kitchen. Then again, what would he trip over? From how impeccably spotless much of his apartment was, an outsider might have assumed that no one lived there at all at first glance. Still, Crane allowed his eyes to adjust at their own pace, blinking away sleep as he waited. As the shapes in the room took their form, however, Jonathan spotted something alarming nearby. A shape that most definitely should not have been present in his apartment squatted not far from Crane. A very much human shape.

The figure stood up to full height, and seemed to tilt towards Crane at the waist. Through the dim light, Crane could only just make out the intruder's facial shape. Their face had many rounded edges, unlike his own angular, defined features, though their jaw took on a more squarish shape. Jonathan could not see any hair hanging from the scalp of the dark form. Even without light, though, Crane could see that his intruder was almost certainly a man. While his shape was wiry, the intruder's upper body was defined by the developed pectoral muscles that only a fit, adult male would have. At first he thought the man might have had a particularly thick neck and broad shoulders in addition to his pronounced musculature, but he quickly realized that there was an apparatus clamped about his intruder's neck. In fact, the intruder also appeared to be a similar piece of gear around his waist and hips. Though gender, fitness, and attire allowed Crane to rule out some individuals, they hardly helped him deduce exactly who might be standing in his apartment, if he was indeed being visited by a familiar face. However, as Crane's eyes finally adjusted to the low light, he finally noticed the many scars etched upon the man's skin.

Hit with the gravity of the situation, Crane gingerly got to his feet as he said the name that would have sent most denizens of Gotham running for their lives. “Victor Zsasz.”

Zsasz gave a satisfied exhale at the sound of his name. “You remember me.”

Crane, now stood up, found his center of gravity before taking on an unassuming, though balanced stance, his shoulders pulled back, his head lowered, and his spindly legs bent just slightly at the knees. Though Zsasz had at least twice the muscle mass that he had, Crane would not allow himself to appear intimidated. “Don't come any closer.” Crane ordered Zsasz, meeting the killer's cold gaze.

Zsasz stood rooted to the spot, his face turned to a frown that mixed bewilderment with annoyance. His expression formed into a half-smile, however, as he spoke once more. “Doctor. Still so accustomed to giving orders, I see. Old habits die hard. I understand.”

Crane made no reply, but raised his arms up in front of himself, curling his palms and fingers into loose fists. He took in a deep breath before lowering his brow, tightening the corners of his mouth, and hardening his gaze. If Zsasz spotted even a hint of fear on his face, any single inkling of intimidation, the murderer would attack. If Jonathan could convince Zsasz without words that he would not make for a cooperative or pleasant target, then maybe Zsasz would give up and run off into the night. Doubtful as such a possibility was, it was a prospect that Crane needed to consider. Even if the killer had come unarmed, Crane stood little chance against Zsasz, but he still needed to do what he could to preserve himself.

“Doctor, I don't believe you understand.” Zsasz said, eyes narrowing into a gaze that reminded Crane of a shrewd businessman. “As your- subject during those months, you were not conservative in your use of your glow- your smoke. The sensations that you gave me, they grew to be welcome.” After a pause of clenching his teeth and attempting turning his head against his collar, Zsasz finished his statement. “I want more.”

Crane sucked in a breath and released it before giving his reply. “I won't help you.”

Zsasz stared at Crane for a moment before narrowing his eyes and shaking his head at the response. “No, no, you still don't understand.” He spoke through his teeth on the last word, biting back his incensed tone. “You can't deny me this, not when I deny myself your mark.”

“If you want to kill me, I advise that you get on with it.” Jonathan said, holding his head up straight on his shoulders as his words grew bold. “I will not and cannot help you, Victor. To do so would be a violation of ethical- of my ethical principles.”

At long last, Zsasz took an awkward step towards his chosen victim, a bitter giggle fighting its way out of his throat. Crane in turn stepped back, maintaining eye contact with Zsasz all the way. As afraid as he might have been, Jonathan kept his baser impulse to run under tight wraps. The long wait broke at last as Zsasz leapt at Jonathan. In a singular motion, Jonathan swayed out of his attacker's path. Zsasz barely had enough time to stop himself before he slammed into the wall. He whirled about towards Crane with a look of stupor on his face. Jonathan briefly considered taunting Zsasz for underestimating him, but instead flung himself out of the way as he was rushed at once again, stretching one of his spidery arms and striking Zsasz's side as he did so. Though Zsasz gave no audible response to the successful hit, when he turned to re-focus on Crane once more, his expression had turned turned icy. Rather than attempt to rush Crane once again, Zsasz began to make a sluggish approach towards the doctor. His footing became less certain and looser in its appearance. Both of Zsasz's arms hung limp at his sides, swaying with the uneven steps that he took towards Crane. There was no doubt in Jonathan's mind that the display served only conceal Zsasz's intent, a technique that Crane himself would have employed. Zsasz may have known nothing about Zui Quan or any form of martial arts, but Crane had to admit that his attacker was evidently experienced in hand-to-hand combat.

For a moment, Crane considered within the deeper recesses of his mind the possibility of simply allowing Zsasz to take his life. Crane had nothing to lose. No family. No real friends. No passions. Even his most beloved possessions had been taken from him long ago. He would not be missed. And who was to say that the act of dying would be so terrible with Zsasz as his killer? If nothing else, Zsasz did engage in a sort of intimacy with his victims as he carried out his work. From the accounts Jonathan had read, Zsasz preferred to hold his victims flush against himself as he finished them off, and might even mutter improvised and likely unintentional poetry as he worked. All of the verses were ghoulish, certainly, but some had struck Jonathan as almost tender. In fact, Jonathan had been unable to help but be reminded of what a person might say during or before sex as he had read some of the poems that the survivors of Zsasz's attacks had recounted. Maybe it would not be so painful if he simply stopped struggling and allowed Zsasz to pin him down and whisper sweet nothings in his ear before finally releasing him from the agony of his day-to-day life.

At last, Zsasz made his move. He drew up one of his arms to his middle, and struck at Crane's stomach. Jonathan reflexively brought down one of his own limbs upon Zsasz's, managing to halt the attack. To his surprise, Zsasz did not seem to be using very much force. Their eyes met for a moment, shock meeting vexation. The pause only lasted a second, however, as Zsasz raked the nails of his free hand across Crane's cheek. With a huff that sounded somewhere between indignant and dismissive, Crane retaliated by rapping his knuckles against the dead center of Zsasz's chest before stepping back to regain a safe distance from his opponent. They went on like that for a while, Zsasz landing a blow, and Crane parrying or sometimes hitting back before taking a step backward. Each cycle only felt more rapid than the last, and Crane did not take long to realize that they would soon hit a wall if he did not think of something in the next thirty seconds. Fortunately, before the gap between his back and solid plaster could be bridged, Zsasz's patience shattered. The pattern was finally broken when Zsasz suddenly thrust forward, left shoulder first, in an attempt to knock Crane into the encroaching barrier. His efforts turned up fruitless, though, as Crane weaved to the side the moment that he realized what was about to happen. For once in his life, Crane was grateful that he happened to be scrawny, though, he was more grateful that he had not been rendered completely inflexible by months of relative inactivity.

As he spun away from the killer, he heard a hard thud followed by a cry not unlike that of a wounded animal coming from Zsasz's direction. When he turned once more, prepared to parry any move that Zsasz might try, the sight of his former patient on the ground came as a shock. Jonathan gazed down at the now defeated Zsasz. Could he truly have brought down a man thrice his size and strength with only his hands? Not even with his hands, really, with a simple evasion of an impulsive move from Zsasz. His victory seemed much too easily won. As he looked closer, however, he realized that he had not 'won' at all. Zsasz's collar had twisted on his neck just enough to reveal the raw skin that it had hidden. Crane felt somewhat disappointed. He had almost been counting on Zsasz outwitting him or overpowering him. If only he had just allowed himself to be tackled to the ground. He could have had that moment of closeness before being given an appropriately abrupt death. He might have finally been happy then. That was not Jonathan though. Jonathan would not consent to play the role of prey to Zsasz's predator so easily. He had to fight, no matter how happy he would have been to allow Zsasz to crush or strangle the life out of him. Relinquishing control had never been a strong suit of Crane's.

But it would have been wrong for him to kick a man while he was down, Crane reminded himself. Rather, he approached the felled murderer with caution lined by determination. “I warned you.”

Zsasz gave no reply at first, as his attentions had gone to attempts at pressing his collar back in place. When he finally did speak, Zsasz hardly looked at Crane, and his words came out pained and breathless. “You- you wouldn't- dose me for my efforts, would you, doctor?”

“Why are you so determined to take the toxin from me?” Crane asked, surveying Zsasz's form further. “It's sold all over the city. Albeit illegally, but I'm sure that that means nothing to you.”

“I have- tried to take it from others, doctor. I have taken it from others.” Zsasz's tongue flitted out to lap at his upper lip every now and again as he spoke. “It was not- right. It never felt the same.”

Crane stifled an irritated sigh. Of all the people to notice small imperfections in an imitation drug, that person simply had to be Zsasz. Anyone besides himself who might have attempted to produce fear toxin likely would not have used the proper amount of each necessary compound or would have attempted to substitute one element with another, resulting in improper bonding between molecules. Though one could recreate the fear induced by the mixture with some inaccuracies in its composition, an attentive observer would likely notice differences in the evoked high. Zsasz seemed perceptive enough.

“I can't help you, Victor. I haven't made fear toxin in months, and I don't even have the components to make any.” Looking down at Zsasz, however, Crane could not help but feel the urge to give aid to this pathetic, pained animal in some way. After some thought, he spoke once more, avoiding Zsasz's eyes. “I can get your restraints off, however, if you'll allow me.”

Zsasz turned his head to look at Crane. His eyes had gone wide and unfocused, and his mouth hung just slightly ajar. The look reminded Crane of that of a fish on dry land, confused, desperate, and helpless. No doubt Zsasz was in severe pain, and Crane had the impression that the collar might also be constricting his airway. The collar had its own lock in the front, and a strap winding around it until it reached a metal ring on the back. Considering that Zsasz's attire was likely fitted on him by Arkham, the fourth stingiest mental hospital that he knew of, Crane determined that the lock was likely nothing complicated.

“Stay put.” Crane ordered as he hurried towards his kitchen. He could pick a lock easily enough with the correct tools. A bent metal rod, a dental instrument, a bobby pin, any would work. The last happened to be the only instrument that Crane had immediate access to, and also happened to be the least accurate, but considering the situation, there was no room to be fickle. He forced open his drawer of assorted potentially useful household items, and began to rummage through it for his box of bobby pins. Plastic utensils, pencils and some pens, a few sewing needles, an empty stapler, but not a single bobby pin immediately found their way to him. As often as Crane promised himself that he would organize himself better, he never seemed to follow through. At last, he shifted a stack of sticky notes out of the way to reveal the object he sought. He snatched up a pin before hurrying back to Zsasz.

Zsasz lay still on the floor, now on his side, breathing as lightly as he could, and allowing saliva to drip from the corner of his mouth. Crane knelt down beside him, and bent the pin into an appropriate shape for lock picking before slipping it into the keyhole, manipulating the device's inner mechanisms. As he worked, Jonathan made an effort to meet Zsasz's gaze, but was met with only an unfocused, empty stare. He was surprised to find that despite the circumstances, no fear could be observed in Zsasz's expression. In previous research, Crane had generally found that patients would involuntarily show fear symptoms if brought close to death by strangulation. How strange that Zsasz showed none. Clearing his head of the undesired thoughts with a quick shake, Crane sped up his attempts at matching the ridges of whatever key had been intended for this lock. Finally, after Crane had considered giving up on removing the collar, the lock came loose, allowing Jonathan to slip it out of place.

Crane almost fell onto his back trying to hurry away from Zsasz as he grabbed at the collars, tearing at the strap until it was pulled from each rung holding it in place, and finally tossing the collar away after it opened in the front. As Crane had expected, raw skin of an angry red hue covered much of Zsasz's neck. The sheer visible severity of the rawness raised more than a few questions in Crane's mind.

Zsasz finished his sputtering after few moments, and wiped away the semi-viscous fluid that had dribbled onto his lower lip and chin. He looked towards Crane, his mouth and nose scrunched up, and his brow lowered.

Crane met his gaze with his own look of cool neutrality. “I am going to unlock this- thing on your waist. Stay on your side until I tell you otherwise.”

Zsasz stayed silent, looking from Crane to his remaining restriction. With a single nod, he turned his head away once more. Taking the gesture as the closest thing he would get to confirmation, Crane shifted himself so that he could remove the back-most lock first. With Zsasz no longer in immediate peril, he worked at a steady pace, occasionally allowing himself to glance towards the faded scarlet tattoo stretched across the fugitive's back. The pattern meant nothing to Crane, but he could not help but wonder if it had significance in Zsasz's mind. For that matter, who could possibly have had enough courage to stick someone as volatile as Zsasz with a needle enough times to form the marking? Crane had to assume that he must now be represented by one of Zsasz's many tallies if he was willing to get so close to Zsasz for any period of time.

In only a short while, Crane had disengaged the lock and slipped it off of the restraint that it had held closed. The front lock followed suit after only a few seconds of tampering as Crane found that the mechanism resembled its opposite exactly. Crane paused a moment to glance up at Zsasz once more. The killer appeared to either be immersed in deep thought or in a state somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Taking the opportunity, Crane stood up and backed off a few steps before speaking, “You should be able to take it off now.”

Zsasz's blank gaze first darted to Crane before rolling downward to confirm the lack of a fastener holding the device together. As he registered the sight, his lips formed into a giddy grin, though, his eyes remained wide and empty. He reached down to once more begin unlatching the leather strips that held the thick belt in place. The design of the belt itself, Crane noted, was almost identical to the collar's. The only difference seemed to be that, as Zsasz pulled the device loose, some padding had been placed between the leather and Zsasz's skin. The cloth used, however, could not have been nearly enough to fully or even mostly prevent chafing.

As soon as Zsasz was able to put his fingers between the waist of the restraint and his skin, he slid the belt off with the leather that it had held in place, his face contorting with pain all the while as more and more raw skin revealed itself. At last with the leather fully removed, he allowed himself to lean back against the wall with a sigh of relief.

“How long have you had that on?” Crane asked, surveying the damaged skin across the killer's hips and thighs while instinctively attempting to maintain modesty as though Zsasz would mind anyone eying his phallus. 

“Longer than I wish to say, doctor.” Zsasz answered. “My- aversion to certain fabrics in those damn jumpsuits was not appreciated. That-” He growled the word, tilting his head downward to look at his discarded gear, “-was their solution.” Finally, Zsasz looked down at his lower region of degraded skin. His expression morphed from relief meshed with annoyance to shock. He gritted his teeth, and reached down to run his index finger down his waist, making unseen lines of varying length in seemingly random locations. “Can you imagine it? Robbed of access to my own flesh as I slowly rotted away, only relieved when they thought it appropriate to prod at me or allow me to piss. Not one thought for the ones I have gifted salvation.” One of Zsasz's nails pressed down hard on his skin, drawing a minute amount of blood. He looked back up at Crane and curled his lip back to reveal a grotesque beam. “Treated like cattle- by pigs.” A choked laugh escaped Zsasz's throat.

Crane's eyes narrowed as he met Zsasz's gaze, looking for the true significance of his words. His account could easily be exaggeration or an outright lie, but Jonathan could not assume that either was the case when his story was so plausible. Crane would not have been shocked if Arkham had changed their policies or even broken laws to allow Zsasz to be treated as he had described. Even if he had made up much of what he claimed, the evidence of mistreatment had written itself upon Zsasz's skin, and that much was reason enough for a substantial lawsuit to be filed against Arkham. In any case, Crane reminded himself that people like Zsasz did deserve some amount of sympathy, especially when mistreated by those in charge of their care. “I'm sorry. You must be in pain. I have ointment that might reduce any soreness.” Crane said, filling the silence at last.

One of Zsasz's eyes narrowed at the offer, squinting at Crane as though he had. The opposite eye remained drooping and blank, staring past Crane. Jonathan suppressed the urge to flinch, feeling the blood rush out of his face. After a moment of observations, Zsasz focused fully upon Crane once more, evening out his eyes as his expression drooped into a frown. He nodded and gave a short, “Yes.”

Against his better judgment, Crane turned his back on Zsasz to hurry away to the washroom. Jonathan felt a knot forming in his stomach, complimented by a chill that ran down his spine. His reaction to Zsasz should have been one of pure instinctive fear, a fight or flight response and nothing more. A physical indication of horror should have been the last state effecting Crane. He reached up and scratched down three subtle red marks down his cheek. Even complete apathy accompanied by boredom was a better than a sense of fear. Anything was better than the shame of being a victim.

He leaned against the wall, appreciating its cool surface against his heated skin. Once he had regained a normal breathing pattern, Crane took in a slow breath before walking towards his sink. He opened his medicine cabinet and took out a palm-sized bottle corked by a black rubber stopper. The medication was intended for short-term burn treatment, but from what Crane could tell about the mixture, it would most likely work just as well on particularly tender skin.

As he headed back out into his living room, Crane opened his mouth to explain to Zsasz the proper way to apply the ointment. The words died in his throat, however, as he gazed around and realized that his visitor was nowhere to be seen. He began to panic before realizing that a draft had entered his home. A wash of relief came over Crane. One of his windows had been left wide open, allowing the breeze inside. Zsasz must have let himself out. There was no need to worry. Crane half smiled as he brought the window down until it was only several inches from being closed.

For a moment, he considered closing the window fully and locking it. On one hand, closing the window would keep out the frequent external racket, police sirens, shattering glass, screams, and such. On the other hand, Crane had to admit that the summer night's air carried a pleasant scent despite the pollution of the city and might even help him fall asleep. He could not place the possibility of Zsasz making his way back into the apartment as either a pro or con in itself, but Crane could not help but wonder if his visitor would return. After all, who was he to turn down the first willing company that he had had in years? If Zsasz had wanted to kill him, he would be dead by now, so what was the harm in allowing him back inside?

As he looked back towards the couch, Crane placed the ointment on the worn windowsill. Zsasz had left behind his restraining gear. While Crane could not blame Zsasz for being unwilling to carry around such heavy burdens, he would have been grateful if Zsasz had at least shoved them to the side before leaving. Crane could find a place for the equipment himself, but tripping would be an inevitability before he could get around to doing so. Right then, however, Crane needed sleep above all. He had become used to the complete absence of excitement from his life. Anything even vaguely frustrating tended to drain Jonathan of what little energy he could muster up. This night's visit could have easily prompted Crane to go to bed an hour or two earlier had it happened at any other time of day. With his work for tomorrow in mind, Crane retired to his bedroom to sleep off his encounter with Zsasz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a headcanon that I've had for a while: that collar, those gauntlets, and those shorts that Zsasz has on in Arkham Asylum are incredibly uncomfortable to their wearer. In fact, they can even cause damage to the wearer's skin if kept on for extended periods of time. Though I've taken some liberties with Zsasz's outfit here, mostly because there is no explanation of his gear in the game that I know of, the idea remains about the same.
> 
> I'm not the only one who thought that Zsasz's collar looked really uncomfortably tight, am I? And I'm not the only one who thought that his shorts looked like some kind of chastity belt? Anyone? No? Ah, well, at least my perception gave me an idea for a fic.
> 
> Another thing, why do I never seem to see Crane making use of his skill in martial arts? He's perfectly capable of defending himself in hand-to-hand combat, and I'm somewhat bothered that we don't see more of his Violent Dancing, at least that I know of. I'm also curious if Crane is canonically capable of actual dancing. Alas, we'll probably never know because god forbid a villainous character should be given any more development as a person than absolutely necessary.
> 
> Don't be afraid to comment if you have any criticisms or corrections. I'm always open to improving my work.


End file.
